


To Wait, To Forget

by mademoisellebitchface



Category: MapleStory
Genre: Family, Gen, Oneshot, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:17:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mademoisellebitchface/pseuds/mademoisellebitchface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know, Francis, it's really funny - they call you the cynical dreamer."<br/>"Oh?"<br/>"And yet you have more hope than any of us ever will."<br/>"What do you mean?"<br/>"Day after day, night after night... Rain, hail, shine, and everything in between… You're here, just waiting."<br/>Francis-centric</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Wait, To Forget

" _Mama?"_

_He's wearing that nice red coat today; that one that she has to pat the dust out of because it's been sitting in the drawer for too long._

_And that nice, cream-coloured cashmere scarf – the one he got from his mother._

" _Mama, why are you dressing me up?"_

_She brushes the hair out of his eyes, before she gives a soft smile – a soft, warm one, for the first time in what seemed to be a century._

…  _Oh, he knows—how he knows—that something is terribly, terribly wrong._

_Mama never smiles._

" _Because we are going shopping today, my dear boy."_

_Such venomous lies drip off that tongue of hers still bite at him, nervous smile sweet as venom._

" _Mama?"_

_She says it again, to herself—quieter, this time around._

" _Shopping."_

_The small boy frowns._

…  _Mama never takes him out shopping._

" _We're going shopping," she says, "We need to buy milk and bread."_

_With those last words, she clasps tightly onto his hand – hoping to never let go – as she swings the door open, the chilly winter air biting at her fingertips._

* * *

In those knotted tresses, that fair hair of hers is scattered by the cold winds whipping through the frigid winter air—the tattered sleeves and hem of her dress billow out into the icy air surrounding.

Rain, shining like pieces of silver from the shoon of the moon, pelts down on them—not that she can see much of anything far in front of her, for the darkness of late evening cloaks her vision.

With a shiver tingling down her spine, she steps out into the cold winds – lo and behold, he sits, in all his childish, shivering glory.

"What on Earth are you doing out here?" she whisper-shouts.

Still—yes,  _still_ , like he never does—the boy does not answer.

… Whether he notices her presence at all is an entirely different story—always trapped in his own world, that child; the strange child.

"Francis," she reprimands wearily.

He simply stares straight ahead.

"You're going to catch a cold, Francis."

Francis was simply a boy; a boy with a vivid imagination – perhaps too vivid, to the point that it had thrown him into a magical world full of endless fantasies.

Looking up, she squints her eyes as she watches the little pellets of water drip,  _drip_  down onto her—hands still by her side, lavender dress painted a darker lilac as her sleeves stick to the sides of her hips.

He doesn't even care enough to tilt his head in her direction, as he replies tersely:

"So are you."

The fair-haired girl sighs, as she takes a seat next to him, not that it matters whether her dress was in a worse condition than it was—still  _is_ , as a matter of fact—already.

He glares into the distance, his face perpetually scrunched into a scowl, it seems, strands of forest green hair falling over his face—eyes as chilling as the winter cold.

She narrows her eyes, as she, too, peers into the darkness.

"What are you looking at?"

"The air," is his morose reply.

He brings his knees up to his chest, still wearing the same drab expression.

With a sad smile curved on her lips, she reaches a hand out to brush those tufts of hair from his face to reveal those eyes of his—eyes that are the most brilliant shade of hazel, like burnt amber.

Out of instinct, he snarls, like a wild animal, slapping her hand away.

"Don't touch me," he snaps.

"You can't see the air, Francis."

A smirk lights up his features, as he lets out a wry chuckle.

"You can't see the air," he mocks.

The girl smiles back knowingly.

"You can't see the air," she repeats once more.

And there, while he chuckles, they sit in contemplative silence, only broken by the small spattering of rain, and perhaps the small distant taps of other children as they saunter down the corridor—like him, unable to sleep.

He shuts his eyes, though he is not tired, he takes the end of the scarf in between his fingers, pressing it to his face.

'…  _It still smells like her._ '

It is the faintest of scents—like dust, for it had been kept in the closet for too long; like roses, the perfume she used to wear before they couldn't afford to buy it anymore; like that distinct, indefinable scent that is hers and hers only.

… It is the faintest of scents—like the faintest twinge of the red wine that always seemed to be on her breath.

Disregarding modesty—not that there is anyone that can see her in the night—she, too, brings her knees up to her chin in feeble attempt to keep warm; an impossible feat, so it seems.

"You know, Francis," she begins, narrowing her eyes, "it's really funny."

"Yes," he mutters, "me sitting out in sub-zero weather while I freeze to death is absolutely  _hilarious_."

The girl rolls her eyes with a smirk, resisting the urge to shove the younger boy playfully on the shoulder.

"They call you the cynical dreamer."

"Yeah?

The fair-haired girl directs her gaze to her feet,

"But you have more hope than any of us ever will."

Her laughter is mirthless,

"Day after day; night after night," she continues, "Rain, hail, shine, and everything in between… You're here, just  _waiting_."

His eyes begin to grow teary from the rain washing behind his eyelids—or perhaps something else.

"Hey," she coos, "Hey, don't cry. It's a good thing."

"How?" he snaps.

* * *

" _Mama?"_

_The boy's mother mutters to herself too quickly in a language he is yet to understand – she always was, when she held that dark green bottle in her hand._

_Still, she lowers her gaze, squeezing his hand—squeeze, squeeze._

_Grimacing, now, she is about to crack those small malnourished bones in his fingers._

" _Mama!"_

_He captures her gaze once more, this time._

" _Yes?"_

" _My hand hurts," he squeaks, "you're squeezing it too hard."_

" _Ah, I am sorry."_

" _Why are you squeezing it so hard, mama?"_

_She lets out a quivering breath,_

"…  _You ask too many questions, my boy."_

* * *

"How can it be a good thing if it's so painful?"

She lets out a sigh,

"Most of us can only dream of remembering our families—our past. Remembering, in itself, is a pleasure."

"Why would you prefer to remember?"

She smiles wistfully,

"Everyone has a past. I just can't remember mine."

"Maybe that's for a reason."

"What?"

"Maybe it's best if you didn't know what your life was before you wound up here."

"Why do you say that?" she frowns, "You don't know  _me_. You don't know my  _past_."

He gives a broad grin—one of cruelty.

"Ah, but  _you_  don't know, either," he replies solemnly. "You could have been anything—maybe you had parents, siblings."

" _Everyone_  has parents—"

"Maybe you were from a broken home. Maybe your parents didn't have jobs."

"Francis…"

"Maybe you weren't wanted."

The girl bites her lip, tears threatening to leave her eyes at the plethora of possibilities he prattles off—the possibilities of what was, and what could have been.

Clenching her fists, those nails dig into her soft skin.

"Or maybe you  _were_  wanted, but your parents had no choice but to—"

"You're right."

"Oh?"

"There are endless possibilities as to what I was, and what I could have been—I know that much."

"Yes?"

"But that's it."

"What do you mean?"

"That's  _all I know_."

Francis blinks in response, finger placed on his chin.

"If I knew more than that, then maybe I'd even have a sliver of hope that my parents are even alive and looking for me."

Francis lowers his gaze.

"I see what you mean," he hums half-heartedly, "but, me?"

* * *

_She lets out a small sigh._

_It is now or never – she lowers her voice to a hoarse whisper._

_She kneels down to look at him in the eye, as hard as this feat is, she still manages to do so, as she cups his cheeks – sunken in cheeks – with bony fingers._

' _You don't deserve this sort of life.'_

" _I am going to buy some bread, now," she says, while she is fishing some of those ration tickets out of her pockets, "and some milk."_

" _Mama?"_

" _My dear," she smiles forlornly, as she brushes tufts of hair from his face, "My son, if there's even one thing that you'll remember of me…"_

 _She begins to blink profusely – for what reason, is something that Francis certainly_ doesn't _want to know._

" _It should be that I love you very, very much."_

_And, with that, wrapping the rags around her too-thin form once more, she stomps through the snow with hazel eyes forlorn, her too-thin figure slowly fading into the distance._

* * *

He glances at her through the strands of hair covering his eyes; there are droplets of rain running down his face—or perhaps something else.

"…I'd prefer to forget."

"Why?" she questions, voice softer, "Why would you prefer to forget?"

* * *

_He wraps the jacket around his frail, thin body in feeble attempt to keep the cold out, as he sees, in the distance, the burly figure of a man creeping ever so slightly closer, as the chilly day soon turns into the still-chilly night._

_Closer, closer…_

" _Excuse me?"_

_The boy, with his knees hugged against his chest, wordlessly gives a nod, as he looks up to the man, so imposingly looming over him._

" _I'm from St Mary's home for children," he begins with that booming voice of his, as he quickly presents a badge glimmering silver in the moonlight, "Francis—your mother called us to look after you for a while."_

_He holds his calloused hand out, his eyes the same shade of silver as his badge._

" _For now, you're coming with me."_

_Francis tilts his head to the side, as he stares at his calloused hand held out for him._

" _Will I be able to wait for her there?"_

_There is an indefinite pause—and an excess of likelihoods—that sit between them, as he is met with the officer pursing his lips, with that piercing silence ringing in his ears._

* * *

He wraps the jacket around his frail, thin body in feeble attempt to keep the cold out—whether he is shivering from the cold, or something else, he doesn't care enough to know.

"… Because then I won't have to wait any longer."


End file.
